


Noblesse Oblige: To Be Just, Chivalrous, and Kind

by The_Kinky_Pet



Series: Stories in the Power & Paradox Universe [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, M/M, Power and Paradox universe, public group sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3308483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kinky_Pet/pseuds/The_Kinky_Pet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an Out-Take for the world of Power and Paradox.  It's the story of the Dom who wrapped Tony in his coat at The Pierre mentioned in chapter 35.<br/>This will probably make little sense in isolation.  Sorry!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noblesse Oblige: To Be Just, Chivalrous, and Kind

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Power and Paradox](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063802) by [The_Kinky_Pet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kinky_Pet/pseuds/The_Kinky_Pet). 



> The idea of this scene just wouldn't leave my mind, so I decided to write it down and share. 
> 
> For Tyrone, just picture Tywin Lannister. :-)
> 
> All the warnings for chapter 35 of P&P firmly in place: self-destructive behaviors; drug use; slut shaming; shitty media being shitty; elements of dub-con (though Tony doesn't think of it in those terms); gender based double standards; Doms abandoning aftercare. 
> 
> To be absolutely clear: Tony consented to the public sex, humiliation kink, drugs, and drugged sex while sober; the drugs followed the consent, therefore I gave it a dub-con tag, not rape 
> 
> Also, for this snippet, uh: classism, chivalry, unkind thoughts about one's own child, stern parenting? Not sure those are actually things to warn for, but there it is. :-)
> 
> (Title change inspired by a comment from Noman. Thanks, Noman!)

 

William Tyrone Macmillan III looked around the ballroom and suppressed a sigh.

 

His grandfather had once told him that “to be the Captain of Industry is to tolerate boredom surrounded by the rich and useless; it’s almost enough to make one nostalgic for the factory floor!”

 

Tyrone always recalled those words at such events. (His grandfather, his father, and his son were William; he went by Tyrone.) He was bored, but he did his duty all the same; he paid the right compliments, asked the right questions, and advanced the interests of The Macmillan Corporation.

 

The evening wore on.

 

_“Shameful, shocking behavior! What’s wrong with subs these days?”_

_“It does take two to tango, you know.”_

_“Humph. Well, even so.”_

_“Is it just me or is it feeling rather crowded?”_

_“Well, no one wants to stay at the far end of the ballroom where Tony Stark is making such a dreadful scene!”_

_“What’s he doing?”_

_“A scene! Literally. Right there on the ballroom floor. He’s—“ she leaned forward to whisper._

_“My God!”_

It was in all the chatter around him. (How distasteful.)

 

Tyrone loathed these events. He loathed them even more without Margaret on his arm, but Sylvia had begged for her mother to come with her on the trip to Crete and they’d agreed. (He wasn’t very good at saying no to his baby girl.)

_“No, no, don’t go over there, Jessica. Stark and those Doms are still going at it.”_

_“What?”_

_“Tony Stark. He’s got a little group of Doms taking him in turns.”_

_“Jesus! Do you think he’s okay?” She hesitated. “Do you think someone gave him something? Maybe . . . maybe we should call the police?”_

_Her husband snorted. “Oh, he’s high all right. Brought his own pharmacy and shared it all around.”  
“Oh. Oh dear. Should we--?”_

_“Let’s not start any trouble, darling. Come with me—you really should meet Mr. Yakimoto.”_

Finally, it was late enough Tyrone could depart without offense. (Really, he could have made his escape earlier, but Annabelle Patterson was a truly fascinating woman.) William had wandered off somewhere, shirking his duties as usual. Sylvia had twice William’s brains and dedication, though only seventeen. (They’d waited late in life to have children and, really, if it weren’t for Sylvia he might be sorry they’d bothered.) Tyrone collected his coat and was starting to looking for his son when William staggered over to him, glassy-eyed.

 

“Dad. Dad! Shit. Shit. He’s shaking, he’s shaking bad. I think there’s, there’s something wrong with him? He seemed fine before! What do we do? Should I call 911? Yeah, maybe-- I, shit, where’s my phone? Where’s my phone? Fuck! Dad! Dad! You’ll know-- You’ve gotta— gotta—“

 

“Silence!”

 

(Tyrone had a terrible suspicion.)

 

William looked up at him, eyes wide and blown.

 

“Are you on drugs?” his father asked, voice tight.

 

“I, uh, everybody else was! I mean, uh, he offered and we all—“

 

With a sinking feeling, Tyrone realized the ‘he’ was Stark. His son had been one of the Doms with Stark.

 

(God DAMN it!)

 

“Collect your coat and go down to the car. Not a word. Go and wait for me in the car. Now!”

 

(Idiot child.)

 

As Tyrone walked to the far end of the ballroom, he found it empty, the other gala attendees giving it a wide berth. At first he didn’t see Stark—he was partially screened from view by the railing, but when he did—(Christ.) Stark was shivering, curled up naked on the ballroom floor.

 

Tyrone approached swiftly, then knelt down next to him, murmuring, “Shhhh, it’s all right.” There were bright red welts from a crop scattered randomly across Stark’s back. (Sloppy.) Tyrone grimaced. They’d streaked his back with cum.

 

He laid a hand on Stark’s forehead, then pressed his fingers to the man’s pulse, carefully counting the beats.

 

Heart rate slightly elevated for a sub who was still under, but not dangerously so. His son was a fool: Stark wasn’t about to OD; he was about to drop.

 

And they’d just left him there. All of them. Left him naked, shuddering on the floor when they were done with him.

 

(Including his own son.)

 

Tyrone took a deep breath and pushed his fury aside.

 

(At least William had gone for help, idiot that he was.) It was cold comfort.

 

“You’re all right,” Tyrone murmured to Stark, voice gentle.

 

Tyrone wiped off Stark’s back with his handkerchief, then discarded it on the floor. He looked around them. Where were Stark’s clothes?

 

Tyrone took a sharp breath. Had they been lost in the shuffle or had someone _actually_ taken the sub’s clothes as a cruel prank? Tyrone held in a bitter laugh. Why did he expect better from the sort of Dominants who would do a scene in public, then leave their sub to drop alone, naked, where anyone could see him?

 

Tyrone shrugged out of his coat and carefully wrapped it around Stark, pulling him a little closer; Stark was still shivering. Tyrone stroked his neck and hair, humming soft comforting noises. Stark leaned into his touch.

 

Stark was a fine looking man, with strong refined features. They had met casually at various tedious events, both equally bored by the insipidity around them, but Stark had always been a little too overt about it for tact, not quite willing to conceal the sense of superiority that came with genius. It was strange to see him so vulnerable and to offer comfort; Stark’s pride would no doubt resent it.

 

Tyrone checked Stark’s pulse again, pleased to find it evening out. The shivering abated.

 

Stark’s eyes fluttered open, a little unfocused—though with subspace or drugs, Tyrone couldn’t say. (The gossip-mongers said Stark fell deep in his subspace—far deeper than most subs.) There was a beauty to Stark now that he’d calmed and thrown off the overt signs of his distress. He had that enchanting looseness of a sub in his space, something innocent and sweet in his expression with his guard so thoroughly lowered. Stark smiled up at him.

 

Tyrone felt a fierce surge of protective outrage that the Doms who’d had Stark abandoned him, that they’d left all this loveliness untended, exposed for a stranger’s eyes.

 

“Time to get you home,” Tyrone told Stark softly, resting a hand on his cheek. Stark murmured and pressed his face into the touch.

 

Tyrone gathered Stark into his arms. A fireman’s hold would be easier than the proverbial bridal-carry, but he wouldn’t do Stark the indignity. Tyrone’s knees creaked slightly as he stood, but otherwise his body made no protest. (Not bad, for sixty-six.) He headed for the rear staircase that would better protect Stark’s modesty, but all the same he tipped Stark’s head to his chest so his face was less visible.

 

Tyrone beckoned to one of the liveried hotel employees as he neared the stairs. “Have Mr. Stark’s car brought round right away. He is indisposed.”

 

“Of course, sir,” the man replied and hastened to obey.  

 

Stark blinked up at him, eyes still foggy. Tyrone held him close, taking the steps slowly so he wouldn’t jostle his charge.

 

As they emerged on the drive, a large man—beefy, ruddy-cheeked—was holding open the door to a fine vintage Bentley.

 

“Tony!” he called, rushing forward with evident concern.

 

“Mr. Stark is indisposed,” Tyrone informed him stiffly.

 

“I see, sir,” the man said, recovering a more formal demeanor. Tyrone was by no means displeased though; it spoke well of Stark’s character that he inspired such devotion from his staff. “I’m Harold Hogan, sir. Mr. Stark’s chauffeur. May I?”

 

Mr. Hogan held his arms out for his employer; Tyrone found himself unexpectedly reluctant to part with his burden, which was absurd. The man clearly cared for Stark.  

 

“Of course, Mr. Hogan,” Tyrone said, and between the two of them they managed to preserve Stark’s modesty during the transfer. Mr. Hogan held his employer close.

 

“Sir? Can you tell me what happened?”

 

Tyrone briefly—though delicately—explained the situation to him. Mr. Hogan nodded, face impassive.

 

“Is there someone you can call for him?” Tyrone asked.

 

“I’ll see that he’s cared for,” Mr. Hogan assured him turning to load Stark oh-so-carefully into the car.

 

“May I take your card for him, sir?” Mr. Hogan asked. “Or take a message?”

 

Tyrone shook his head very slightly, then said, half-surprising himself: “He deserved better.”

 

“If I may, sir,” Mr. Hogan said, something fierce in his tone, “He usually does. Deserve better.”

 

(And it was true, wasn’t it?)

 

“Just as you say, Mr. Hogan,” Tyrone agreed with a nod. The chauffeur looked a little surprised, but gratified.

 

(My god, what would Prestley do if he were incapacitated? Or his lout of a son?) Tyrone hoped his own staff would acquit themselves as well as Stark’s.

 

“Good evening, Mr. Hogan,” Tyrone said. (He did not add ‘take good care of him;’ it went without saying. They weren’t rank sentimentalists, after all.)

 

“Good night, sir.”

 

They parted.

 

William began babbling as soon as Tyrone entered the car. “Look, Dad, honest, it was Stark’s idea and—“

 

“Silence,” Tyrone barked.

 

His son wisely obeyed. Tyrone took a few long deep breaths, then said softly—he didn’t need to yell—“I have never been more ashamed of you.”

 

William flinched.

 

“Is this what you’ve learned at Yale? Are _those_ the sorts of Dominants you keep company with?”

 

“No, sir,” William mumbled.

 

“A Dominant should be--?”

 

“Just, chivalrous, and kind,” his son answered dutifully by rote, quoting his grandfather.

 

“Yes. Just so.” Tyrone fixed a steely glare on the boy. “Worse than the disrespectful public scene—which was utterly stupid of you all—you left a submissive— _your_ submissive—naked, in public, and alone to fall into sub drop. Like a toy to be discarded.”

 

Tyrone let his censure linger in the air a moment, then asked poisonously, “Was _that_ just? Chivalrous? Was it _kind_?”

 

William looked away. “No, sir,” he mumbled.

 

“Not to mention the drugs,” Tyrone added.

 

“Stark sugge—“

 

“Quiet,” Tyrone commanded. “I am not interested in excuses. You don’t need to remind me that I am not at all pleased with Tony Stark for giving drugs to my young son. But that is no excuse. You not only knowingly took them—foolish in itself—but also proceeded to do a scene while inebriated. There is no defense for that sort of reckless stupidity.”

 

“Now, let us both be very clear about what is going to happen,” Tyrone said. “Tony Stark’s name is about to be dragged through the mud. Again. And this time, he’ll have very little defense. You’ll likely be spared. You’re a Dominant and a Macmillan—I will endeavor keep your name out of the press if necessary, though it’s more than you deserve.”

 

“But, dad—“

 

“Do you think it wise to interrupt me, now?”

 

William did not answer, merely bit his lip and shook his head.

 

“Good.” Tyrone resumed: “If ever you are tempted to brag about tonight. To snigger. To utter or even _think_ words at Stark’s expense, remember everything they say of him might justly be said of you. Every word of censure and vitriol he receives; it belongs to you. Imagine it said of you.”

 

William looked unmoved. Tyrone was sorely tempted to strike the little bastard.

 

“Imagine it said of Sylvia.”

 

The boy’s eyes went wide. “Sylvia would never—“

 

“I hope not, but that’s besides the point. If she made _the same_ stupid choices you made this evening, she would be treated like Stark; she would NOT be treated like you.”

 

William shrank back. For all his faults, William did dote on his sister. (They had at least one thing in common after all.)

 

“I will hire a team of specialists to deal with this mess,” Tyrone said, then corrected himself, “Or rather _you_ will. The money will come from your discretionary account.”

 

“Dad, I--”

 

“Do you think I should pay for your stupidity? Or perhaps your mother? Or Sylvia?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“Good. You will give me the names of all your fellow Dominants from this evening’s little . . . _escapade_. Any association you had with them ends immediately.”

 

William nodded his agreement, then looked urgently around the car.

 

“Um, Dad? I think I’m gonna—“

 

He threw up on his father’s shoes.

 

Tyrone shuddered.

 

“We’ll speak of this again in the morning. And trust me, your mother will have a few choice words to say as well.”

 

William looked even more queasy.

 

In fact, Tyrone felt quite certain Margaret should mete out the boy’s punishment. He nearly chuckled at the thought. (Poor William.)

**Author's Note:**

> In my head canon, Tyrone quietly black-listed all the Dominants in that scene--certainly, they never worked for Macmillan Corp!--not because he thinks the group sex was so terrible (though ill-advised), but because he feels abandoning Tony post-scene reveals a profound lack of character, judgement, and fellow-feeling that boarders on on sociopathic. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you liked it! Comments are a delight, as always. :-)


End file.
